


Shore and Ship and Moonrise

by Hyarrowen



Series: Shore and Ship [1]
Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster
Genre: Character Death Fix, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyarrowen/pseuds/Hyarrowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's August 1746, and the battered remnants of Bonnie Prince Charlie's army are leaving Scotland.  One such refugee takes a friend, injured almost to the point of death, to France with him.</p><p>A canon divergence in which Ewen and Alison did not marry at Inverness in March 1746.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is not part of the "Ally Better than the Sidhe" 'verse, in this story too, Alison Grant and Ewen split up at Inverness a couple of months before Culloden.
> 
> In two or three places, I have used D K Broster's words and phrases, because they cannot be bettered.
> 
> Thanks to theficklepickle and heloise1415 for their help with this fic.

Keith Windham's blood was warm and sticky on Ewen's hands, the battlefield smell of it sending him for an instant back to Culloden. It was running slower now, merely seeping into the uniform. Windham's eyes had drifted shut, perhaps in their final sleep – yet Ewen suddenly stilled his own breathing, and bent his head closer yet.

A thread of sound. Windham was still alive.

Ewen dropped his friend's hand, and pressed his own once more over that soaked cloth. He suppressed all his wild emotion, and looked up. The faces of his companions were indistinct in the moonlight; yet he could still see that they wanted him away, for from the river came the shouts of Windham's patrol as they crossed the ford. He forced himself to think. Morar, Arisaig – small fishing villages, both of them. It was all but certain that there was no doctor in either – and the journey even to Morar, close by as it was, might kill Windham. And out there on the bay was the French privateer and safety; and, please God, a surgeon.

Windham was still and heavy in his arms.

“Duncan,” he said to the big crofter, close at his shoulder. “Your plaid. We'll carry him.”

“Mac 'ic Ailein - ”

“Hurry! They'll be here soon!”

Duncan growled in frustration, unpinned his plaid and spread it hastily on the sand, one eye all the time on the dunes and the thin woodland above. 

“Now, carefully, all of you. Lachlan!” Ewen shouted over his shoulder. “Here. We need you.”

Lachlan wailed, but came to heel like a dog obedient to its master. Ewen, keeping his other hand pressed over the wound, slid one arm more closely under Keith's head. “Lift,” he ordered, and his men lifted.

It was done in an instant; there was a soft moan from Keith. “All right. I'm here. Hold on,” whispered Ewen, though he was sure Keith would not know he had spoken. He struggled into a crouch, his wounded thigh searing with pain. “Lift,” he said again.

The four men raised the plaid, and the Englishman on it. At a shambling run they went down the beach, the sand clawing at their feet. Ewen was half bent over, keeping his hand on the wound and trying to steady the swaying body.

They reached the boat, beached at the water's edge. Ewen leaned closer. Yes, there was still a thread of breath, laboured enough to rive his own heart. “In,” he gasped, and they had Keith over the gunwale and onto the bottom-boards in an instant. Ewen lowered his head with utmost care; and then was startled by the roar of a musket behind them. If more were to be harmed by Lachlan's murderous intentions! – Ewen, hands slippery with blood, took hold of the gunwale and flung his weight against the boat to heave it forward.

There were shouts in English behind him. “One of them's wounded!”

“Is it Charlie-boy?”

“Hope so!”

A volley of musket shots. He heard one or two bounce off the water, while the rest went into the sand. They had been right to run... And the boat was feeling the sea now. Ewen, panting, shoved harder, the wavelets pulling at his legs. The others swore, or prayed, heaving likewise at the boat. She was free of the beach at last. MacDonald, the fisherman, jumped neatly in. Ewen was after him in a flash, and to the devil with waiting for his men to go first. He did not even spare a glance for the patrol, but scrambled low to hold his friend in the uncomfortable space in the bottom of the boat, his hand already back in place on the wound.

“Keith. Keith. Don't go. I'm here.”

That angular face was gaunt, but the lips moved just slightly. Ewen bent low, and heard his own name, and “Where..?”

Thank God. “To the ship.” He sat up and pulled his own plaid loose, and spread it, one-handed, over Keith to keep him warm. Someone shoved a bundle of cloth into his vision; Angus had pulled a shirt from Ewen's own bag and wadded it up. Ewen twitched down the plaid and pressed it to Keith's breast.

The first real wave took the boat. He glanced up, startled to see how far they had already come. They were perhaps halfway to their destination; there were faint voices from the white shore, one of them raised, giving orders, but no more musket-shots. And God be praised, theirs was the only boat on the beach that night! Duncan and the fisherman were at the oars, pulling, pulling; there was Angus, a hand on his dirk, sitting tensely between the pair in the stern and a wild and despairing figure in the bows.

Lachlan.

Ewen spared his foster-brother perhaps one second's glance before turning back to Keith, taking his hand, which lay limp on the bottom-boards. He risked lifting the bundled-up shirt for the briefest instant. There was not so much blood – was that good or bad? He bent lower, and there was a breath, and another breath, faint on his cheek. “Hold on. Hold on.”

“Trying...”

“Yes. Keep trying.”

There was, unbelievably, the faintest ghost of a laugh. Ewen could not but agree that it was a ridiculous thing to say. Then there was a lurch as a bigger wave took the boat, and he heard the fragment of a gasp of pain and Keith's hand tightened, just for a moment, on Ewen's; who responded with a frightened grip. 

“Not long now.” Not long until they reached the ship, or..? Should he have left Keith for his patrol to find? But he might have died while waiting alone – and Ewen's men would never have abandoned their chieftain to stay with the redcoat. No, this was the only way.

Keith was still now, eyes closed – but it was not the limp stillness that Ewen so dreaded... and finally the waves were diminished and a dark bulk reared high over them. Ewen spared a glance upwards. They were in the lee of the ship.

A rope came down, straight to the fisherman's hand. He heaved on it, and the fender made contact with the hull. Peering upwards, Ewen could make out faces, dim in the moonlight, looking down on the boat – and among them, the one face above all others that he had been praying he would see.

“Archie!”

*

Dr Cameron was on his way down into the boat on the instant, while one of the crew was sent running for his bag. Ewen's men crowded back to give him room, and the fisherman made the boat secure with another line. Archie, arriving with a rush in the boat, cast an eye on the redcoat lying in Ewen's arms - “'Major Windham, is it?” he asked curtly, and without waiting for Ewen's desperate nod, began his examination: pulse, eyes, and a glance under the bloodied mass that was Ewen's shirt. Then his bag arrived among them on the end of a line, and he had a dressing over the wound, and directed Ewen to lift the heavy form while he bound it in place.

“He took it on the breastbone,” he muttered. “That was fortunate. We must get him on board. Get rid of this - ” and he tapped the sword in its scabbard at Keith's side. Ewen attacked the belt with hasty fingers and handed the sword to Angus, while Archie called out to the privateer's officer of the watch, who was looking curiously over the rail.

They waited for an eternal couple of minutes, while Duncan hustled Lachlan up the ladder, and then a board came swaying down to them on ropes, and Angus and the fisherman steadied it between them. “Now, carefully,” said Archie, and shifted back while Ewen and his men lifted Keith in the plaid, and pulled the board under him. The fisherman scrambled aft and tied him to it. It was all awkward, in that small heaving boat, but they managed it, no light weight though he was.

The board lifted, Archie, back on the ladder, keeping pace with it as it was raised. Ewen, though in a fever to follow, waited while Angus went after, and turned to the fisherman. “The patrol -” he said. The MacDonald had risked much for them and although Ewen had paid him well, the danger had turned out to be greater than any of them had anticipated.

“I'll to my sister on Skye,” he replied. “She's away past the Cuillin and they'll never follow me there. I'm often away for weeks at this time of year. If the ship's going that way, I'll get a tow. If not, the _Curr_ can take me well enough!”

The _Curr_. The Heron. Ewen stared at him for an astonished moment, wondering dizzily if the man was indeed flesh and blood, or a messenger from Old Angus' shadow-world. In his current state of mind, that seemed entirely possible to him. But he caught himself up: there were other matters that demanded his attention.

“You'll need more money than you've got on you, perhaps,” he said quickly, and fetched out another gold piece. “You've had a narrower escape than you'd bargained for tonight.”

“For Lochiel's kinsman, I'd do much – but you're as generous as he,” said MacDonald. “I thank you, Mac 'ic Ailein. And you should go now – I think your friend -” he stumbled on the word - “is almost aboard. I'll follow, and ask about the tow.”

Ewen had been more than conscious of the board's steady progress up the ship's side, swinging in a little arc as the privateer lifted and dropped in the swell. Only with the firmest self-discipline had he refrained from glancing up during his brief conversation with MacDonald. Now he nodded and shook the man's hand. “In case you make your own way: thank-you,” he said. “I will not forget,” and he lunged for the ladder up the side of L'Herault.

It was a painful climb, since his thigh had received so much ill-usage in the last half-hour, and he gripped the steps with a hard determination; but he gained the deck in the end, with the aid of young Angus who reached over and hauled him up with a desperate strength. And even then he could not rest; he stumbled straight to the hatch-cover on which Keith had been laid down. Archie was beside him.

“Is he -” he could not finish the sentence.

“He's still with us. The dirk went sideways after the first strike. Cut off his coat and waistcoat.”

Ewen drew his knife, and began slicing through the uniform coat. All colour was washed out of it in the silver moonlight, but the bloodstains were still wet under his hands, and plain enough to see: a dark blotch across the waistcoat, and the shirt and lace were a sodden mess. But there was Archie, bent over him at Ewen's side, holding his wrist and counting with an inward look. Ewen continued to cut through the thick cloth, having a little trouble at the cuffs; he was desperately careful not nick the flesh beneath, even just a little; which was difficult, for his hands chose this moment to begin to shake. 

There was a smell of spirits; Archie called for a lantern, and was bending close over a long jagged gash which ran around Keith's side. “This is where the main damage is,” he muttered. “It caught a vein. Needle, and clean your hands first,” and he gestured at a bucket of sea-water which was standing ready next to the hatch-cover, and Ewen washed Keith's blood off his hands, and threaded the needle with fingers that barely obeyed him. Then he stood behind Keith, took hold of his shoulders and waited in tense silence while Archie stitched and tied.

And all the while Ewen was peripherally aware of his men, a few paces away; Duncan holding grimly on to the stricken Lachlan; Angus on Ewen's other side; MacDonald, who had been last up the ladder, speaking in fragmentary English to one of the privateer's officers, and the crew, scanning the shore in case the redcoats were coming off. A few of them were watching the drama in their midst, and not one of them with indifference, for they were all fighting men too. But for the most part, Ewen stared at Archie's bent head and sure hands, and let him do his work. Now he asked for a dressing, then, with Ewen's help to lift the still body, secured it in place with bandages, and at last straightened his back with a grunt, and looked at his young cousin.

“I've done my best for him, Ewen.”

“I know that,” interjected Ewen swiftly: but Archie continued straight on.

“I've tied off the vein that was cut, so there should be no more blood. Since the worst of the blow was on the breastbone, that stopped the dirk from going further in, though it cut a muscle too. But he's strong and healthy. He has a good chance.”

“Thank-you,” and now, suddenly, there were a few tears. He spared a moment to brush them away. “What next?” 

“Cover him and get him below. There's a sick-berth – it's small, but sufficient. And then you can tell me what happened.”

What happened. Ewen looked up, and met Lachlan's wild gaze from where he was standing at the rail. “Mac 'ic Ailein, I did not know!” he pleaded.

“You attempted murder,” said Ewen coldly. “I cannot speak to you yet. Duncan – keep him under guard. Don't let him alone. Angus -” Angus was Lachlan's nephew. “Find my things and bring them to me in the sick-berth.” He turned away. “Which way, Archie?”

With the help of a couple of the crew, they got Keith below, and into the tiny sick-berth. And there, once they had settled him into a cot which swayed gently with the movement of the ship, they retreated to just outside the cabin and, speaking softly in Gaelic, talked of what had happened; both of them meanwhile watching, through the half-open door, the quiet figure under the Cameron plaid.

After Ewen's brief account of his escape and the drama on the beach, he finished by saying, “I hoped against hope that I would find you on board. I know you said it would be unlikely – but since you knew of this ship -”

“Yes, and there's a reason why I am here. I took a message to the Prince. We are expecting him at any hour.”

“The Prince!” Ewen took his eyes from his friend in astonishment. Archie was smiling at the reception to his news, for his young cousin had been grim, preoccupied, worried half out of his mind: but now he too was smiling. “Where is he now?”

“Coming off Moidart, I hope. He was waiting until it was safe – and maybe Major Windham's misfortune will give the Prince the chance he needs to get away.”

“Yes.” Ewen's face sobered again. “Archie -”

“He has a better chance than most men in his situation. It is not as though he was on a battlefield, like you were. You brought him to me quickly, and that counts for much. Now -” his voice became brisker - “you must think of yourself. Go and wash,” and Ewen glanced down at the bloodstains on his hands, his arms, and his shirt. “Find something to eat. Then you can come back here for the night. Don't worry, I will watch him while you're gone. And I'll sleep in the doctor's cabin next door; the poor man was taken ill on the voyage here, and is gone from this world.”

“Ah...” Ewen sighed suddenly. “God rest his soul. Archie, I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“Fortunately for Major Windham, it didn't come to that. Go on.” And as Ewen prepared to leave him, he added, “I would advise you not to see Lachlan again until morning. Make sure he is well-guarded, for his own safety as well as the Major's – but don't go near him until you have a clear head.”

“I might be tempted to break his neck, you mean?”

“Or his heart.”

“He tried to murder a man!”

“In the morning, Ewen.”

Ewen nodded grimly, and left to go in search of food, finding Angus and his baggage on the way, and with relief, changed his shirt. Then he saw Keith's clothes, lying sliced open and bloody beside the hatch-cover, and told Angus to clean them as best he could: for whether living or dead, Keith would need his uniform coat.

Then he went back to the sick-berth, and after a brief word with Archie, sent him off to his rest, and himself struggled into a second cot which, unoccupied by any crewman, provided an ideal bed for him.

He could not sleep for a long while, though he refrained from tossing and turning. He relived, time and again, those last few minutes on the beach, with Keith's blood flowing hot across his hands and his mind on the knife-edge of fear. And all the while he was listening, listening, for faint sounds of breathing above the creak and working of the ship. But after what seemed like hours, these sounds faded and became distant. 

There was a mild commotion some hours later; his mind provided the information that it must be the Prince, making good his escape in the confusion following Keith's wounding and disappearance. Ewen briefly considered going on deck, but rejected the idea as quickly; to scramble out of the cot and essay the ladder again seemed beyond him at present. But he sat half-up, propping himself on one elbow, and in the light of the shielded lantern, glanced into the cot next to him. There was a slight movement therein, as if Keith had heard Ewen raise himself, unconscious though he was.

“It's all right, Keith. Go back to sleep,” mumbled Ewen. He lay down again, and went back to sleep himself.

*

Archie woke him the next morning – the pale light of a Northern dawn, creeping in through the skylight – by coming into the sick-berth, at once quiet and brisk. Ewen blinked up at his cousin for a moment, then woke in a rush.

“Is he -”

“Yes, he's with us still.” Archie released Keith's wrist, and gently pulled down the plaid which covered him. He bent over the site of the wound for a moment, then straightened and pulled the plaid up again, and motioned Ewen to the further corner of the cabin. He was smiling.

“The Prince is aboard.”

So good was this news that Ewen forgot even Keith for a moment. He reached up and gripped Archie's forearm. “He's well? Alone? With friends?”

“Yes, he's well – indeed, I think his travels agreed with him. He's sleeping now; he has Captain LeBlanc's cabin, and his companions are fitted into the stateroom. You can pay your devoirs later. But meanwhile, you must eat. Have one of your men watch here for a while. And I think you should speak to Lachlan too; he's confined, and he's in black despair.”

“Then I will, though I hardly know what to say to him. Archie, will you wait here while I eat, and confront Lachlan? I will try not to be long.”

*

In the galley - deserted except for the cook, its surfaces wiped down and everything neat and orderly – he begged a little stir-about and ate it there. Then he found Duncan, braced his shoulders and asked to be taken to Lachlan.

His foster-brother was fettered in a corner of the ship's gun-deck, staring at the bulkhead. He had not slept, that was plain enough, nor had he eaten the food that lay on a plate within his reach. Nor, Ewen was sure, had he drunk the water from the jug close by.

Ewen drew a deep breath. “Duncan, go to the sick-berth; you'll find Dr. Cameron there.” And then, as the crofter departed: “Lachlan.”

The huddled figure stirred, then subsided into stillness once more.

“You do yourself no good by this. Look at me.”

Lachlan lifted his ruined face; the flesh on one side was red and ridged, and in places stained black with gunpowder. Ewen did his best to call up pity and forgiveness, and after a brief struggle, succeeded.

“You must eat, Lachlan. Or drink, at the very least.”

“Why?” burst out Lachlan. “You hate me – you, my brother! and the sun is taken from my sky.”

“If you continue to talk like this, I will go. Drink.” Ewen was implacable, and waited until Lachlan picked up the jug and drank, the water spilling from his mouth and into his tangled beard. “Now. Speak. You did your best to murder an unprepared man. Explain yourself.” He was being cold, cold; but the alternative was red rage.

“He betrayed you – and murdered my brother! I found Neil lying cold on Ben Laoigh – and you gone, captured! And when I hid myself and listened around the camps, I heard that Windham had done both. So I swore on the iron that I would avenge you and Neil – and I have not rested since. Mac 'ic Ailein -”

“And yet you must also have heard the true story – that Major Windham risked his life to save mine, and that Neil – God rest his soul - was shot before he ever arrived. You must have heard that Major Guthrie, not Major Windham, was responsible.”

“You had not spared Guthrie's life! He had not betrayed you!”

Guthrie had not ridden at his back for the space of several days; had not needled him, and laughed with him once or twice; had not slept beside him; had not become something a little more than a prisoner.

“This is the last time I will say it. Major Windham saved me from being shot.” And no doubt Lachlan was jealous of that, too. “He did not kill poor Neil, nor order his killing. He saved my life in the only way he could – by conniving at my capture. He's saved me again since then. And he has no ties of kinship with me. He did it because he was my guest - and latterly, my friend.” He stopped, before his anger took root again.

Lachlan gave a wordless cry of despair, then: “Give me my dirk back, and I will end it!”

“I will do no such thing – and neither will you. My cousin tells me that the Major may yet live. I will have your oath that you will neither harm him, nor seek to bring harm on him. And then you will eat and drink – and pray forgiveness from a higher authority than mine.”

Ewen waited while Lachlan gave the oath, then, without further delay, turned his back and departed the cell. He knew Lachlan was turning in on himself once more, but could not bring himself to stay a moment longer.

He climbed, with difficulty, straight up onto the main-deck, for he felt in need of the clean fresh air of the Outer Isles; but once there his seething thoughts were diverted. For promenading on the quarter-deck was the Prince himself, and such of his entourage as had cleaved to him during all his wanderings. There was Strickland, and O'Sullivan... Ewen climbed the ladder, and waited to be noticed, and dropped to one knee. “Your Royal Highness...”

“Ardroy! My friend!” The Prince greeted him with pleasure, raised him up and kissed him on both cheeks, then held him at arm's length. “Well met!”

Ewen gazed at him in astonishment. For all that he was dressed in the roughest of clothes, his hair untidy and his face tanned nut-brown - “Your Highness, you look – splendid!”

That charming smile hovered around the Prince's mouth. “Nay, you flatter me. I look like a hedge-dweller.”

“You look like a true Prince.” He looked like a man, not the sulky boy Charles had become in the fall and fail of his fortunes. His wanderings had suited him. He would be running up the rigging next...

The rigging. Ewen realised that they were truly under way now, setting course westwards to Ireland and beyond; and there, away on his right hand, was a little boat under sail. The _Curr_ , on her way to Skye... And meanwhile, _L'Herault_ was standing out into the grey Atlantic, beyond reach of their enemies – save for the one who lay below decks, in danger of his life.

But the Prince was speaking again. He turned to lean on the leeward rail – over which spray burst now and again, for they were crossing a current and the waves were choppy – “Alas, I have not lived like a prince these last few months! I've wandered all across the Highlands, and out to the Isles, and been given the best hospitality by the poorest folk, and all at their own peril! I have seen more loyalty among those people than many a fine Chief has shown me – your own gallant Lochiel excepted, of course! And I'll tell the tale of my Odyssey tonight at dinner, when you'll tell me yours, I hope.”

“It's a dull enough story compared to Your Royal Highness's!” Rescue, capture, torture, a friendship made and rejected and re-forged stronger, and, ultimately, escape. But before the Prince could enquire more closely, some of the his companions came up. Sir Francis Strickland was among them, and in a few words their prickly acquaintance was renewed. Ewen forgot, for a few minutes, the grim interview with Lachlan; and, when released by his prince, made his way back to the sick-berth in a happier frame of mind. 

*

He was greeted by the sight of Archie laying Keith's head back on its pillow. Ewen checked for a moment in the doorway, in sudden fear, then crossing the threshold, enquired, “Archie?”

“Ah, Ewen!” Dr Cameron moved away from his patient, and to his joy, Ewen saw that Keith's eyes were half-open. He was across the intervening space with alacrity, and his hands went out – but of course, he could not grasp those of his friend, for they were under his coverings. “Keith!”

“Yes.” That was the faintest of responses. Did Keith even recognise him? 

Ewen cast an anxious glance at Archie, who smiled and held out a cup of water, laced with spirits by the smell of it. “He needs to drink. Give him this.”

With extreme care, Ewen slid a hand under Keith's head, to be greeted with the whispered remark, “I'm not going to break.” That made him laugh; Keith was still himself, even though he had so nearly broken. He held the cup to Keith's lips, and waited patiently for it to be drunk down; then looked round for more, and Archie refilled the cup.

“That's good. Ewen, I must get back to the Prince, and you must let the Major drink – and rest.”

“Yes, the Prince. I've spoken to him,” said Ewen distractedly.

“Good; then you'll not need to go in search of him for now. Major, drink as much as you can. Ewen, try to take care of yourself as well as him!”

The door swung closed, shutting out the sounds of ship and sea; Ewen found himself smiling foolishly at his friend while anxiety gnawed behind his eyes. But he asked, “Are you ready for more water?” and at his nod, held out the cup once more.

A few minutes later, Keith was sleeping again. Young Angus came quietly in with Keith's waistcoat, now cleaned and almost dry. “The brother of Mac Dhomnuill Dubh said that you might wish to repair this,” he said, and pulled a packet from his coat, which proved to hold a needle and thread; and Ewen, really glad of employment, spread the waistcoat quietly on the sick-berth bench and examined the cuts at the shoulders where, only last night, he had sliced it off Keith's unconscious body. The stains on the front were very faint; someone, probably Angus, had put considerable effort into removing them. Ewen pinned the shoulders, then sat down and began to sew them up, with inexpert but careful stitches, and then looked at the cut in the breast of the waistcoat; so small a thing, to let out a man's lifeblood! But he put that idea from him, and after a little thought, cut a piece from one of the bandages with with the sick-berth was abundantly provided, placed it as a backing, and began his repair-work anew.

It was inevitable that he should feel that he was mending his friend's body, as well as his clothing, while under his hands was the puncture where the dirk had entered. Its initial murderous force had cut straight through the thick cloth, and there was a jagged tear of two or three inches, where the point had skidded before finding its way in. The ghostly bloodstains were clearest here. Ewen stitched up to the tacking thread, turned the waistcoat on his knee, and stitched again.

“What are you doing? Sail-making?”

He glanced up. Keith's eyes were open a little way; his voice was not much above a whisper, and indeed he still looked half-asleep.

“No. It's your waistcoat.” He held it up for inspection. “I fear your shirt was beyond repair. What we could save of it is bandages now. But your coat is drying. I'll do that next.”

“How did you get them off me? I don't remember -”

“We had to cut them off. You can have my spare shirt when you're able to sit up.” Ewen had some idea of distracting Keith, but of course it came to nothing.

“I remember being attacked -”

“Don't think of that now!”

“- and being carried. How did you do that?”

“On Duncan's plaid.” It had been restored to Duncan last night; Ewen's no longer served as a coverlet for Keith, for Dubois, the burly sick-berth attendant, had replaced it with blankets while Ewen was with Lachlan. “They are a useful garment. You English should adopt them.”

The faintest of laughs. “I did, once. At Fassefern. I had no idea how to manage it.”

“Yes, I remember. If you wish it, I'll teach you how to wear one,” said Ewen.

And indeed his mouth quirked. “I'd like that... What happened after we got to the ship?”

Ewen sighed inwardly. “Dr. Cameron was already on board the ship, as I'd hoped. He came down into the boat, and examined you and said we should bring you aboard. Then he had you put onto a hatch-cover and tied off the vein. He said the blow landed on your breast-bone, and that if it hadn't -” He stopped suddenly.

“Yes. I knew it was my only chance.”

That brought Ewen's head up. He stared at Keith's face, dim in the light of lantern and skylight. “Your only chance? Do you mean you took it there deliberately?”

“I had but a second... I couldn't break away in time, so that was the only thing I could do.”

Ewen had no words for moment, but he bent reached forward, the waistcoat sliding unnoticed off his knee as he did so, and gripped Keith's upper arm through the blanket: not hard, for he had the absurd feeling that he would crush the breath out of Keith if he did so, but with great gentleness. “I always knew you were brave, but that...”

“Nonsense!”

“And you should not be talking so much, I'm sure. Can you drink some more water?” And Keith deciding that he could, Ewen raised his head again and let him sip slowly until the cup was empty. 

At least they had not approached the question of who had attacked Keith. There would be time enough for that later, when he had regained some measure of strength.

*

 _L'Herault_ was heeling over on the starboard tack, driving hard out of the southern end of the Minch. The last low cape of the Long Island was just visible through the haze far away on his right. And over Ewen's head was his Prince, almost at the main-top and climbing steadily.

This sight drove everything else from his mind. He had seen the transformation wrought in the Prince by his wanderings, though he was at a loss to account for it; with his dream shattered and his cause lost, Charles Edward had, apparently, enjoyed the game of catch-as-catch-can with his pursuers. And now he was almost unfailingly cheerful, and indeed occupying himself with learning the working of the ship.

Ewen suppressed a shudder as he saw the heir to three kingdoms start out onto the futtock shrouds. He could not watch any longer; instead, he went up to the quarter-deck and found himself a seat in the best light possible. Here he laid Keith's coat, which he had been carrying, on his lap, then took out the soldier's sash and picked carefully at it until he had drawn out a strong scarlet thread. This would be a long task; both sleeves of the coat were slit right down to the cuffs. But by the time he had finished, Keith might be able to come up on deck himself. Archie had said so; and if the soldier came into company, he would need his uniform. For Keith had stated in no uncertain terms that he felt naked without it, no matter how warmly dressed in a grey fustian coat, and a hat, from the ship's stores (his own hat and wig having been lost in the fight on the beach) and Ewen's own plaid - even though he still insisted that there was far too much of the latter to be called a garment at all. So Ewen sewed, and sewed, and fell into a meditative state which was abruptly ended by the arrival of the Prince on the quarterdeck, stepping nimbly down from ratlines to rail to deck.

“Good morning, Ardroy! How does Major Windham?”

Ewen got hastily to his feet, and made a slight bow. “Well enough, Your Royal Highness. My cousin believes that we may have him on deck in a few days.”

“That's good to hear!” Charles Edward, wind-blown and bright-eyed, was in the best of moods. “And he and I can talk of old times at Glenfinnan – yes, I remember seeing him there, our intractable redcoat -” the “r's” were rolled with some relish “- and I would like to hear of his attempt to capture me at Edinburgh. I could almost have wished to be with him on that adventure!”

It was as bizarre a situation as Ewen had ever heard of, but he bowed again and watched as the Prince turned away to his other companions, some of whom had accompanied him high into the rigging and were now clambering down onto the quarterdeck, but none at all with his gay insouciance. 

*

Mid-morning of the next day, they were on the opposite tack, and Ewen had shifted his position accordingly. Now and then a wave broke over the bows; they were well into the Atlantic, and warm though the air was, with a mild sky crowning the indigo sea, Ewen preferred to be out of reach of the fine spray that reached so far aft now and then. He was starting on the second sleeve.

Archie appeared at his side. Without preamble, he said, “I do not mean to worry you, Ewen, but the wound's infected.”

Ewen's hands dropped to his lap, the coat lying crumpled and forgotten. “He's been doing so well.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. But don't look like that; I'm not entirely without skill, you know.”

“I know.” But despite Archie's reassurance, he could not say any more.

“He's strong, as I've told you more than once. So I've put maggots on the wound – the purser found some for me -”

Ewen grimaced. He knew of the practice, and he trusted Archie utterly, but still they made his skin crawl.

“Don't look like that! I caught it early, but he is developing a fever.” Ewen suppressed an urge to jump to his feet, preparatory to hastening down into the sick-berth. “I have treated fever before.”

“Yes, I know. I beg your pardon, Archie.”

“I should think so.” This was spoken with mock-reproof. “So let us talk of other things. What will you do about Lachlan? You have had much to think of, Ewen - but he's your responsibility.”

They both glanced at a dejected figure in the waist of the ship, with Duncan sitting not far away.

“I think it depends on Windham. He is the injured party, after all... When the MacMartins attacked him last year, he would not have them apologise, but this time I believe it's necessary. I would like to consult with Donald, but he's far away, and the only other authority is the Prince – and he has his own concerns!”

“Indeed.” Archie did not mention that the Prince would have no interest in the matter at all. 

Neither did Ewen. “So this is what I have decided. If Windham agrees, and when we reach port, I will give Lachlan a letter for Aunt Margaret. He can take ship immediately, for there's no attainder on him. My aunt will be glad of another hand about the place – and his father would surely wish to have him home again.” He stopped suddenly; when would he himself see his home next? But then he continued, “Indeed, Old Angus told me that he'd 'seen' Lachlan there through the fire, and I cannot deny him the reality of that.”

Archie considered this. “You'll make a good laird yet, Ewen; that's making the best of a bad business. When will you tell him?”

“If Windham agrees to it, I will tell him then. Let us hope your maggots do their work well!” Then, since he found that he needed to be doing, he folded up the coat, stood, and left it on his seat, adding, “I'll speak to Lachlan now, since you are so good as to endorse my plan for him.” 

He clambered down the ladder leading down to the main-deck, and meanwhile Archie fetched a small sigh of relief, while unobtrusively keeping an eye on proceedings. 

That night, when they were ready to settle down, Archie came to check on his patient, ejecting Ewen from the sick-berth while he did so. Ewen retreated to the gun-deck, where the crew were hanging their hammocks with practised efficiency. He peered through a half-open gun-port at the darkening sea, his thoughts shifting about with the fluidity of the waves, coming to himself only when he realised that he was interfering with the slinging of the last hammocks. Thereupon he repaired to wait outside the door of the sick berth, and when Archie opened it, looked anxiously at his cousin. 

“He's getting feverish, Ewen. 'Tis for you to say: will you stay with him, or shall I?”

“I will stay. Unless you feel..?”

“No, 'tis not so bad that I need to be on hand. Fetch me if you need me. I've given him a draught for the pain. You know the rest – keep him comfortable and wait for the fever to run its course.”

Ewen nodded dumbly, and was through the door to the sick-berth before Archie had turned to go back through the gun-deck.

In the light of the lantern that swung easily with the motion of the ship, he saw Keith watching him with unfocussed eyes; then his glance shifted to the skylight, now showing little but ink-coloured sky, then to the lantern. Keith's face was slack, the stubble showing dark upon it, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Archie had got him into his grey fustian coat, open to show a white shirt; and beneath that, he knew, were the maggots.

“Do you need anything?” he asked quietly.

“Drink. That cordial was foul,” muttered Keith; and after assisting him to drink, Ewen straightened his sheets, before shielding the lantern and climbing into his own cot.

“Wake me if you need anything,” said Ewen.

“Mm.” Keith was shivering now and pulled his blanket up. Ewen lay quiet, and prepared for a long night.

He got up once to re-fill the lantern, and listened to Keith's murmured scraps of speech – something about holding formation, something about guns, and a remark about the Duke of Cumberland with which Ewen entirely agreed. Then, after a long pause, a quick and anxious whisper - “Ewen!”

“Yes, I'm here.” He was responding even before he had fully emerged from his doze.

“Get away!” And even as Ewen snatched back the hand that he had half-extended, Keith continued, “The patrol!”

He must be imagining himself back on the beach at Morar, Ewen realised in a sleepy and confused fashion. But his answer came pat; “We're safe. On the ship. We're going to France.”

“He's going to France? Thank God...”

“We escaped the patrol. Dr. Cameron is with us, and the Prince. It's all right...” and with this inadequate reassurance, he reached out again, and this time found Keith's arm – which flinched under his hand. “He's got a knife!” Ewen gentled his hold, and then released the arm. “He's a prisoner. We're all safe. Go back to sleep.”

The strange words of Old Angus' prediction were vivid in his mind... A thread of one colour and a thread of another. In just such a way had Ewen distrusted Keith in the hut on Beinn Laoigh, while Keith cared for him and watched over him. Each had been captured, each had almost died a violent death; each had fought fever and delirium. Ewen got up again, and sat on a low chair with his back against the bulkhead, and through watch after watch wiped Keith's face, or held his hand when it was apparent that this would be permitted. 

“My friend.”

“Yes.” But Keith did not seem to know him. Was he talking to Ewen, or about him? Again he took the sweat-slippery hand in a clasp which he hoped conveyed comfort and reassurance, and said, “Always,” to which Keith replied with another grunt.

Ewen must have dozed off in the end, for a while later the bell sounded again and there was a sudden upheaval on the gun-deck, as dozens of bare feet alighted on the planking. More footsteps rushed past the sky-light; which, Ewen now saw, was showing grey instead of black through the glass. His arm was asleep; he turned his neck, which was made reluctant by its unusual posture, and saw Keith sleeping quietly, the soft movement of his chest quelling a sudden apprehension.

The door opened. Ewen blinked round to see Archie entering, unshaven and sketchily dressed. 

“How is he?”

“Resting. He had a disturbed night.”

“So did you, I can see. Go and get some fresh air.”

Ewen slung on his plaid and shambled up to the fore-deck, not being in the mood for conversation with the other passengers, however illustrious, on the quarter-deck. He watched the sun lift over the sea, away on the port bow, until it was obscured by the staysail. Then, when his head had cleared somewhat, he went in search of food, and now felt capable of answering, along the way, a query or two about his friend's progress.

His friend. He felt again the warmth of Keith's hand in his, and knew that this was the friendship of a lifetime.

He found he could not stay away for long; so he descended to the sick-berth once more, where Archie was, in his turn, occupying that low chair.

“Is he -”

“Over the worst for now.” And as Ewen slumped a little in relief, “There will be more to come, though. He's had another draught and I've put fresh maggots on the wound. Get some rest, Ewen. I don't want you collapsing too.”

Ewen did not argue. “Thank-you, Archie,” he said, and Archie nodded briskly and left. Ewen scrambled back into his cot, and, with Archie's reassurance in mind, fell asleep in five minutes.

*

Two mornings later, they were tacking southwards, the slow grey rollers lifting and dipping _L'Herault's_ prow, and passing under her on the last stage of their long journey to the Irish coast, which showed distantly on the horizon in the form of tall black cliffs. It was a quiet day, all sails set, and in the sick-berth Keith, now recovered from his fever and free of his maggots, was fully dressed and out of bed for the first time since he had arrived on board. Ewen had requested that he see Lachlan; Keith had grimaced but acquiesced. But: “I'll be damned if I play the invalid in front of him, Ewen!” So, wearing the repaired coat, he was now waiting to receive a most unlikely visitor.

“Lachlan,” prompted Ewen, and stood aside.

“Mac 'ic Ailein tells me that I should not have stabbed you,” said Lachlan, speaking with extreme reluctance. “I am sorry for it.”

“There is no lasting harm done,” began his victim.

No lasting harm! Ewen had a sudden memory of blood pouring through his fingers like a burn in spate, the hot smell of it, the mad scramble down to the boat, the desperate hours following. He must have made some movement, because both men glanced at him.

Then Lachlan continued doggedly, “I overheard that you had betrayed my foster-brother. I saw Neil's body, and believed that you had killed him.”

“Well, Ardroy has no doubt told you the truth of what happened to him – and to Neil. I am sorry for Neil's death. I have a brother too – and if I thought anyone had harmed him -”

The two men exchanged a look. “Maybe you understand why I did what I did, then?” asked Lachlan

“Maybe I do. I would ask that you do not do it again.”

“I have given Mac 'ic Ailein my promise that I will not.”

“Then all's well. We will not speak of it again.”

They would never achieve a state other than daggers-drawn, but it was enough. Keith gave a brief nod, as of dismissal, and Ewen gripped Lachlan's shoulder in approbation, feeling it set like iron. He opened the door to hand him over to Duncan, and having closed it, turned back to see Keith slumping on the chair. “I need to lie down.”

He sprang to assist; there was a brief half-minute of wrestling Keith's near-helpless weight back into the cot, but this achieved, they regarded each other ruefully, their faces a foot or so apart. “I should not have asked it of you,” said Ewen, with remorse.

“Necessary. It's done now.”

“Are you bleeding? Archie -”

“I don't think so.”

Ewen's fingers were nevertheless busy about the buttons of Keith's waistcoat, and he pulled down the shirt too. The dressing was clean.

“I think you're right. Is there anything -”

“Drink.” So they were back to the first hours on _L'Herault_ for an hour or two, but Keith recovered apace, and Ewen's remorseful anxiety subsided.

“Your brother,” he said after a while. “ I have never heard you mention him before.”

“He's younger than me by more than a dozen years. In truth he's my half-brother; my mother remarried after my father's death. Francis is Viscount Aveling, son of the Earl of Stowe; he'll never have to take to soldiering, I'm glad to say.”

“You're on good terms with him, then.”

“Yes, I'm fond of him. He takes after my step-father, who is a kind man.”

There were no words of Keith's mother. Had she, too, died? Was she not kind? Ewen would discover these things in time; or not, as Keith wished.

“Do you remember your father? I never saw mine; he died in the Low Countries soon after the '19.”

The talk meandered down slightly melancholic paths for a while. Then it took a more cheerful turn as Keith told of games with his brother at Stowe Hall, that white Palladian mansion set among the old trees of the park; and Ewen was very glad to see him smile now and then as he did so. 

*

They had rounded the south-western cape of Ireland, and turned south east by east towards Brittany. Now _L'Herault_ was reaching, running easily across the massive swells that lifted in from the Atlantic. The toe of Cornwall lay far off beyond the port bow. And Keith had improved so far that he was able to contemplate going up on deck. 

Ewen helped him into his coat, and he and Archie and Dubois stood ready to assist... “You will oblige me by not attempting to capture the Prince,” said Ewen, and Keith replied, “The thought had not occurred to me – until now,” said with that half-smile which was Keith's challenge to further passages of arms. They negotiated the gun-deck without disaster; indeed, one of the sailors called out something in French, to which Keith replied fluently, if idiomatically, in the same language. Laughter rippled round the sailor's mates, lounging off-duty, at his discomfiture, and as if buoyed up by it, and with Ewen close at his side, Keith took the ladder to the main-deck at a rush.

He stopped for breath once he had gained the deck. “Ah, that's better.”

It was a dancing-day: sunny, the wind snatching at the waves, coming steady off L'Herault's starboard quarter, filling the topsails and snapping the pennants. It could have been a pleasure-cruise.

“Major Windham, you are with us at last! Allow me to assist you!” The Prince, leaning over the quarter-deck rail, addressed Keith with all his habitual charm. He ran down the ladder and extended an arm. Ewen fairly blinked at the sight.

“You will excuse me, sir, if I do not bow,” stated Keith. “The wound still troubles me.” The wound had nothing to do with it: Keith was simply immune to the Prince's charm and unswervingly loyal to the Elector. Ewen caught Archie's eye and they both repressed smiles.

“Of course, and all the more reason to assist so gallant an enemy.” Still the Prince stood ready to help Keith, his arm crooked at the elbow, and thus prompted Keith took it; and did not forbear to rest a considerable portion of his weight upon it, to judge by the Prince's sudden slight lurch.

They made their way slowly up to the quarter-deck, Ewen and Archie following decorously behind, and the Prince installed Keith in the chair he himself had been using. Then he stayed a good ten minutes, questioning Keith about his year in the Highlands - “We have both seen more mountains than we are likely to forget!” At last he extended a gracious invitation to dinner that evening, before leaving them to take a spell at the wheel.

Keith glanced at the two Camerons. “I feel old,” he remarked.

“He once told me that I had an old head on young shoulders. I believe you got off lightly,” said Ewen.

“An old head on young shoulders,” repeated Keith gravely. “I have often noticed it,” - at which Archie had some ado to control the twitch of his lip.

*

The dinner that evening was surprisingly successful. The Prince had insisted that Keith sit in the only high-backed chair, since he was so lately recovered from such a severe injury. Keith inevitably wore full uniform, and Ewen, sitting on his right, was glad to see that the repairs over which he had laboured so long and so carefully were hardly visible in the candle-light. And Keith was on his best behaviour – he had, after all, been brought up in one of the first households in the land. 

They spoke mostly in French, out of courtesy to Captain LeBlanc and such of his officers as sat at the table. “You speak French very well, Major Windham!” said the captain, surprised.

“I had the opportunity to practise it while on campaign in Flanders.”

“No doubt that explains the Flemish accent,” murmured Strickland, sotto voce, at the further end of the table. Ewen gave him a measuring look, and he subsided.

For a while the business of eating the excellent meal occupied them all, but when that was mostly done, the Prince turned to Keith and gaily said, “Now, Major, we have met twice, once at my landing and again at my departure. But there was another time that we almost met – indeed, you almost captured me then! And were it not that I was the quarry, I would fain have joined you on that adventure. So tell me, I beg, of that night in Edinburgh.”

“Sir, Ardroy will already have told you of that night in the West Bow – and the story is a great deal more to his credit than to mine.”

Ewen glanced down involuntarily at the ring on his hand, the gift of the Prince after that little affair. He had left it in Aunt Margaret's keeping before the last desperate march to Culloden, and taken it up again after the escape that Keith had bought him at the cost of his career.

“He has indeed, and your part in it was memorable,” said Charles Edward. and here it was Keith's turn to glance at Ewen's hand, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments before Keith smiled ruefully and turned his attention back to the Prince. “But it must have been an adventure equal to our own, to make that foray from the Castle into the city. Let us have the story, I beg.”

Keith was no story-teller, but he was, of course, accustomed to making reports. And Ewen listened to that report, and from his own recollections filled in what Keith did not say.

Ewen remembered that chilly, gusty night last October well enough; the sound of the gaiety at Holyrood House diminishing in the dark behind them, and the Castle's dragon bulk rearing into the night sky over the Grassmarket. And from that fortress, dark except for windows gleaming like eyes here and there, Keith had issued forth into present danger, the men at his back unused to him and ready to start at shadows, each of which might conceal a murderous Highlander. 

It was only a few hundred yards that Keith had marched, down from the Rock and into one of the narrow wynds with which Edinburgh was threaded, between close-packed buildings, his senses preternaturally sharp for all that he'd been woken but fifteen minutes earlier. Their guide brought them between the sleeping houses, past a church, its spire soaring up on their left, round a sharp corner, under a bridge of masonry, and, beyond a short stairway, pointed at a door set back in deep shadow. And then Ewen listened, smiling slightly, to the tale of the subsequent debâcle, and extended his scarred hand as proof of Keith's sudden (and as Ewen freely admitted) thoroughly provoked attack; and was then amused to hear Keith and the Prince and Strickland amiably discuss the inadequacies of the passage which had taken them all to safety.

“Five minutes more and you would have caught me!” The Prince was at his most ruefully charming.

“It is my eternal regret that I did not,” replied Keith, with utmost sincerity.

“And your further travels that night? For we were safe enough once we were back across the Grassmarket, but you had to avoid our patrols on your return.”

“They were diverted by the commotion in the house, and after that it was simply a matter of keeping my uniform covered under Ardroy's cloak.”

“Here I must confess,” put in Ewen, “that it was not my cloak.”

“My favourite,” said the Prince dolefully. “From Rome.”

“It was yours, sir?” This, with a laugh. “Well, I have it still – or at least, it's in Arisaig, or wherever my effects may be. The spoils of war, and of the finest quality. It did me good service that night.”

“May I say that I am glad it did? Sir, my compliments to a brave man.” The Prince lifted his glass to Keith, and the others perforce followed suit, and none more heartily than Ewen. Keith acknowledged their toasts with an inclination of the head, and raised his own glass in reply; but only Ewen received the benefit of his sidelong sardonic glance, and indeed the situation was incongruous in the extreme. “To a brave man,” repeated Ewen firmly, drank and set his glass down with finality.

About ten minutes later, Keith became very still, and Archie on his other side murmured something to him. 

“Yes, I think I should,” was the quiet reply, and Archie rose and made his excuses for his patient, and departed with him. Archie was reassuring on his return, but Ewen sat through the remainder of the evening in a state of concern, unable to attend fully to what was being said.

When the party broke up, Ewen repaired to the small cabin which he now shared with Keith, the two of them having vacated the sick-berth the day before. On entering it, he found that Keith was already undressed and installed in his cot, so had no task except to do the same himself; which he carried out in worried silence.

“Are you ready to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Ewen blew out the lantern, and settled back into his cot. “We should not have gone to the meal tonight -”

“No,” cut in Keith, “but politeness dictates. Nor, as a soldier of King George, do I wish to show weakness. Surely you must see that.”

“Of course I do,” said Ewen, though by those words Keith had displayed absolute vulnerability to him. “Good night. Wake me if you need anything.”

A grunt. “Good night.”

*

Two days later the voyage was over. _L'Herault_ anchored in the port of St-Malo, and the guns of the town boomed out in royal salute to the Prince; who, springing up onto the quay with his friends in train, was in happy mood. Ewen watched him from the boat and quietly remarked on this, with some bafflement, to Archie. “The Cause is lost and he's returning to France defeated. Why is he so merry?”

“He's an adventurer, when all's said and done, and this was a great adventure for him.”

Keith, waiting beside them, made no comment, but Ewen could feel the effort it cost him to remain politely silent.

They made their unsteady way up the damp and barnacled steps of the quay, and surveyed the strong walls and towers of the defences. Within was a tangle of houses old and new. Somewhere there would be a place to stay; and meanwhile, the Prince was being welcomed by the great folk of the town, in a burst of talk and laughter and good cheer.

*

After two nights in an inn close under the walls, and by which time the world had ceased to sway under their feet, they took up residence in a little house further up the hill. This belonged to Captain LeBlanc, and it was situated next door to its owner's residence. Their number was diminished by Lachlan, who had been promptly dispatched to Ardroy with Ewen's letter to Aunt Margaret, and Keith insisted on sending word to his regiment in Flanders via the usual channels in Paris; though Archie had strongly advised against any immediate attempt at travel.

“They will notify my step-father and brother – who will be glad of the news, for they will have heard by now that I am gone from Morar.”

Still no mention of his mother, but it was, after all, for Keith to bring up that subject; and Ewen himself was distracted, for _L'Herault's_ sister ship, the _Fleur-de-Lys_ , dropped anchor a week after they had arrived, and on board was Lochiel.

A scattering of exiles waited on the quay for each ship that came in, watching the small craft that crossed the harbour, and it was there that Ewen embraced his cousin, in turn after Archie, and did his best not to reveal his concern about Lochiel's appearance. For he was thin, and worn, and pale, though his first words after their greeting were, “Ewen, my dear boy, you should not be standing around in the cold with that leg...”

“Oh this, 'tis nothing, Donald, and Archie has a surgeon in mind for me,” said Ewen. “Do you come home with us; we've taken a fine little house, and we're very snug there until we decide what to do.”

Keith, though he was now taking short walks around the town, had declined to come and welcome the ship new-in from Scotland, with its cargo of Jacobite refugees. So the Camerons walked slowly up the main street of the town, and then onto a smaller street, and turned into a narrow close. A swarm of Captain LeBlanc's children erupted from his house, next door to theirs; Ewen, very much at sea as he always was in this situation, allowed Archie to deal expertly with them, and gained the doorway of their own home with some relief. Here Céline, the oldest of the LeBlanc brood, who held sway over the Cameron household with benevolent despotism, dispersed her siblings with a few fierce words.

There was a dim hallway, with stairs leading up to the main accommodation; there was room there for both Archie and Donald, and their families should they join them, over the adjoining shop. Above, in the attics, were housed Duncan and Angus, and now Lochiel's men too. And on the ground floor, there was a parlour and a little annexe which housed kitchen and scullery, and a further little room. This room Ewen had appropriated for himself and Keith. There was space for two narrow beds, and a window looked out onto Madame LeBlanc's kitchen garden, with its rows of beans, looking rather the worse for the recent cold weather, and its cabbages and root vegetables; and a beehive, which no doubt accounted for much of its productivity. Beyond the garden, there was even a glimpse of the harbour between the houses of the town, and the masts and yards of the ships therein.

It was all comfortable enough that Ewen could call it a home without much difficulty. And here Keith, who had been reading in the parlour, rose to greet Lochiel, and bowed with none of that difficulty which he had claimed for the Prince... Céline marched in with a tray of coffee, which she deposited on the table, and thus began a period of domestic comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

The Governor of the town wished to give a reception for the Prince and his fellow-exiles, and this took place a few days after Lochiel's arrival. The three Camerons were to go, though not their redcoat, of course (which coat was now properly repaired, with new sleeves set in by a tailor of the town.) Lochiel's face showed no sign of the melancholy which Ewen knew assailed him; by now, his Chief was mostly recovered of his wound, but -

“Donald, you will surely come back here once the ceremonial is done?” asked Ewen as they climbed laboriously into the cariole that stood waiting outside their house. “I remember you had little taste for the ball at Holyrood...”

“Yes, have no fear. But I must give the Prince my support at this time.”

Archie, sitting next to his brother, nodded sombrely. “The instant you begin to feel weary, you should leave. You too, Ewen.”

And Archie's clan chief, and his chieftain cousin, nodded obediently.

Holyrood. Ewen remembered, as the cariole clattered its way through the darkening streets of St-Malo, how he had danced there with Alison, in satin and powder, in a blaze of candlelight, amidst a throng of loyal gentlemen and ladies, so many of whom would dance no more. And he would never dance with Alison again; though six months after she had turned from him to go to her father, he discovered that he could think of her without pain. They were both different people from the carefree couple who had danced at Holyrood.

And at this latest reception, nearly a year after the Holyrood ball, the Prince seemed the least affected of anyone by his disastrous adventure. Ewen was conscious of a slight feeling of discontent at this, and the welcoming speeches being done, and the meal consumed, and the dancing begun, he went in search of Lochiel; finding his cousin sitting in a little side-room with his face set in the still mask which meant he was in pain.

“Do you wish to leave, Donald?”

“Yes, I believe 'twould be wise. The Prince has plenty of company; he will not feel the lack of mine.”

“Shall I look for Archie?” It had become second nature for him to worry.

“No, 'tis not necessary! I need to rest, that's all.”

“I will go with you. Wait there, and I will call the cariole.” And he went in search of the vehicle. It was such a comedown after the carriage Donald had used in Scotland; still, there was little use in regrets. They had escaped with their lives, after all.

At the door of their house, he climbed down carefully from the cariole, and assisted his chief to do likewise, before paying the driver and despatching him to the livery stables. They went in to the narrow hallway and into the parlour, to allow Lochiel to rest before climbing the stairs.

Ewen had expected to see Keith sitting at the fireside in one of the easy-chairs, perhaps reading a newspaper; but there was no sign of him. Ewen was a little surprised – it was not late – but he was not obliged to sit up for them, after all.

He and his cousin sat for a while, idly chatting or sitting in comfortable silence, and since Céline was not present in the evenings, Ewen poured wine for them both. Then, feeling suddenly uneasy, he stood; the anxious days of the voyage had returned to him.

“I'll just go and check that he's all right.” He was off down the corridor beside the staircase, and looked into the room they shared.

It was empty. No, it was deserted. The scarlet coat was still there, but the grey fustian was gone, along with Keith's sword, and there was a letter on the small table at Ewen's bedside.

A minute later, and he burst into the parlour, letter in hand.

“He's done it again!”

Lochiel looked up, startled from his doze.

“What? Ewen, who has done what?”

“He's gone!”

Seeing the letter, Lochiel began to understand. “You mean the Major?”

“Yes. He says -” Ewen gestured with the letter “- that duty compels him to return to his regiment in Flanders; that he has given us no parole; that we have his gratitude, always; that he is sorry -” _that it is a privilege to call you my friend. Ewen, I am sorry, but I must go._ “And he left money – again! for the sea-voyage, and for Archie's fee. As if we wanted -”

“Wait. He gave you no parole?”

There was a pause. “No. I forgot to ask for it. And since we landed, I've become used to – I simply forgot.” Ewen glared at the letter for a moment, obviously not seeing it at all. “I was going to arrange a prisoner-exchange for him, as soon as Archie said he was fit to travel -”

“And did you tell him this?”

“No! It seemed a matter of course to me -”

“Then 'tis no wonder he has gone! Ewen, what were you thinking of?”

“Nothing, it seems.” He put the letter down, and also the small pile of gold coins that had been enclosed with it. Then he gathered the coins up again. “I'll take these. I might need them.”

“You're going to look for him?”

“Yes! He's not well enough to travel, let alone escape!” And Ewen left the parlour precipitously, and a moment later Lochiel could hear him banging about in the annex room, gathering in haste the items that he would need. “Duncan! Angus!” His voice came imperiously from the foot of the stairs.

“What will you do when you find him?” asked Lochiel, when Ewen erupted into the parlour again.

“Wring his neck! No, I'll bring him back here until he's well enough for the journey. Or if he will not, go with him to the border.”

“And how do you intend to find him?''

That stopped Ewen for a second. “I'll ask at the LeBlancs,” he said, and a few moments later Lochiel heard urgent knocking at the door of their landlords. There was the sound of Céline's voice; meanwhile Lochiel tried to picture what would happen if the LeBlancs could provide no information. Ewen would doubtless set out anyway, and blaze a path across northern France, looking for an enemy who was dearer to him than his brother.

The whirlwind reappeared at the parlour door. “Céline says that she brought some linen in an hour ago, and he was here then. But a while later she heard our door close – you know how we have to bang it shut since the last rain.” He paused, tapping his fingers on the door-frame. “He can't be far ahead. I'll try the livery stables. Donald, I am sorry, but you see I must go, don't you? It's all my fault that he thought he had to do it this way.”

“Yes, you must go. Take care, and let me know as soon as you have news. Godspeed!”

Ewen swooped into the room for a moment, gripped Lochiel's hand in both of his, in gratitude perhaps - or perhaps looking for reassurance as he had done when he was a boy - and departed.

Lochiel found all this very difficult to explain to his brother when he arrived, not that the details of the situation were so convoluted, for they were not...

“Why did they not talk this through days ago?” said Archie, in perplexity.

“I've very little notion. But you know Ewen, chivalrous to a fault, and he would not wish to place the Major in an uncomfortable situation – and the Major is not one for sharing his thoughts.”

Archie glanced down at the letter with pursed lips. He was of the opinion that it spoke worlds – but of course he had had a ten days' voyage on _L'Herault_ with Major Windham, when he was at his most vulnerable. That was not something a doctor could discuss concerning a patient. He let the matter drop.

*

Ewen, meanwhile, with his men in tow, was visiting the livery stables of the town. At the first two he had no luck; at the third, while he hammered on the street door, he fought the impulse to mutter under his breath. Should he have gone to the port first? But no ships, except maybe a privateer, would be sailing at this hour – and a privateer might ask questions that a merchantman would not. Keith would surely prefer to go by land.

Lamplight showed through the cracks of the shutters in the window close at hand; the street stretched into the dark on either side. Water trickled down the gutters from a light rain that had begun to fall. It was not a good night for a man to be travelling alone; still less a man lately recovered from a terrible wound, and in a hostile country.

A spy-hole in the door opened. Ewen had a sense of a pistol at the ready. “What do you want?”

Ewen explained his mission, and showed a gold coin; a small hatch in the door slid aside, and the coin passed through. “You'd best come through to the yard, if you really want to hire horses.” The door was, finally, unbarred, and they were into the office.

“He didn't say which road he would take?”

“No, but he had a Flemish accent, so maybe he'll be going that way.”

That was what Ewen expected; Keith was always inclined to go straight for his goal – but the point about his accent was a good one, and perhaps Ewen could track him that way. He was only thankful that Keith's most recent experience of speaking French was in Flanders, and not in an English schoolroom.

He scribbled a note to be taken back to Lochiel, and gave it to young Angus, who departed at a run. Then, with Duncan at his back, he went out to the yard, where an ostler had three horses ready; the best in the stables, or so he'd said. They loaded one with their bags, mounted the others, and walked the horses through the archway that led out to the street, maintaining that cautious walk on its cobbles until these petered out at the edge of the town and they were able to increase their pace.

Ewen could feel the resignation emanating from Duncan. But only once had the man spoken out. “Mac 'ic Ailein, since he wishes to be gone, would we not be better to let him go?”

Ewen was not going to share the contents of that letter with anyone but Donald and Archie. “He wishes to be gone, surely. But it does not follow that he needs to go alone. I'll see him safe to the border, or a port if he goes by sea, and when that's done, I'll return.”

“But your wound...”

“Has done well enough until now. The leg will carry me for a few days more.”

The resignation turned to disapproval.

“That is my final word, Duncan.”

They went on at a brisk walk, the moon lighting their way when it looked out from behind the drifting clouds. Its light – that calm, otherworldly light – illumined not only the quiet landscape but the inner landscape of Ewen's being; and he studied this new realisation with some wonderment as they rode. How had he not recognised this feeling before? It had informed all that he had done since Morar; it had been growing, strong as a sapling tree, even before then.

The town was some miles behind. They passed through farmland, and then through a village: winding street, church and inn. At the third such village, Ewen reined in.

“We must stop.” For the sake of the horses, above all. Given the choice, Ewen would have gone on through the night. “That inn will do.”

They turned in under the archway. There were still a few guests drinking late; all to the good, the travellers would not have to rouse the house. Half an hour later, he was lying on a comfortable enough bed, wide awake with worry. An hour after that, he was asleep, and the moonlight coming in through the window had left his face: but the knowledge that it had brought remained.

The next day was dull and overcast, and they rode out, in a slow dawn, following news of a dark-haired man who spoke with a Flemish accent. Past orchards of apple and pear they went, the roads busy with carts, taking the harvest to storehouses or to the markets. The villagers were out in force, manhandling great baskets of fruit, the women as strong and busy as the men, and the chattering children kept hard at it too. And now and then, Ewen would stop and ask one or another of the adults: “Did a dark-haired man ride along this way? Did he speak?”

The overcast clouds turned to a light rain, which fortunately was at their backs. And in the dusk at the day's end, with the road stretching down a long slope ahead, was a man on horseback, sword at his side, going slowly with his shoulders set in a weary slump. Ewen, peering, was as sure as he could be of the identity of that figure.

“Duncan, wait here.” Duncan nodded without comment.

Ewen trotted forward, the movement sending sharp discomforts through his injured leg, and brought his horse close to the other - for it was indeed Keith. Ewen felt a huge relief well up in his heart.

Keith had reined in at the sound of the approaching rider, and glanced round; a look of extreme chagrin crossed his features.

“Keith. You didn't have to escape, not this time. It's my fault. I should have said...” Ewen, in his haste, found the words stumbling on his tongue. He peered at Keith's face, set cold under the brim of his hat.

“For God's sake. This is a fine time to tell me.” Keith could not even summon the energy to snap the words.

“I know. I know. Come home.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “We can talk it over at the inn, in the village back there. Just come back with me.” The horses were standing now, but Ewen's stamped a hoof, and another hoof, sensing its rider's distress.

“I will not be diverted from my purpose, Ardroy.”

“When were you ever? And there's no need to call me anything except 'Ewen' – unless it's idiot, or fool. Just come home for now, until you're well enough -”

“It isn't home.”

“I know. It felt like one, for a while - just come back. Just to the inn. We can talk there. It's getting cold.” And indeed it was, the drizzle and the dusk compounding to make a miserable evening. “And you forgot your coat.” Ewen had packed the uniform coat into his saddlebags, as a kind of talisman.

“My coat -” Keith made a sound of extreme exasperation; then - “You want me to come back so you can persuade me, you mean.”

“I can apologise. You can accept it, or not, as you will.”

Keith glared at him, but turned his horse. “The inn, then. I make no promises.”

“Thank God.” He smiled at the Englishman. “Let us make haste, then. The light's going fast.”

*

Duncan led the horses to the stables and disappeared thence to the rambling quarters at the rear of the inn. Now Ewen and Keith, wearing his red coat again like a challenge, were facing each other across a remarkably fine meal in the dining-parlour. In silence, for now it came to the point, neither wanted to begin a conversation which, given the hot tempers of both participants, could so easily end in disaster.

“The food is good,” said Ewen, after a while.

“Yes, although the weather is inclement for the time of year,” responded Keith.

They glanced at each other in silence – broken only by the sound of a group of travellers arriving at the inn - and continued to consume their meal.

“Oh, damn it, Ewen, I'm sorry. But I had to do it, you see that, don't you?'

“No, I don't. You're not fit to travel, and you must surely have known that I would not keep you back once you were.”

“As to the first, I'm the only good judge of that.”

“Archie...” began Ewen.

“Has not been discussing my health with you, I trust.”

“No,” admitted Ewen, ashamed that he had even raised the notion. “Not since you were out of danger.”

“I am relieved to learn it. As to your second point, my honour requires that I rejoin my regiment at the earliest opportunity.”

“Your honour is less important than your life!” Ewen knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his lips.

And sure enough, “No, it is not!” Keith was really angry now. “You refused to buy your life at the cost of your honour – why should you expect me to do so?”

“Oh, I am sorry, I didn't mean that.” Ewen passed a hand wearily over his eyes. “But you nearly died. I could feel you going. There was so much blood – I gambled that Archie would be on that ship, and he only just saved you. Don't -” but here his voice faltered and he could not say any more.

Keith waited a few moments, then pushed his plate to one side, with scant regard for the work that Madame Valatte had put into its contents. “Ewen. I am a _soldier_.”

Ewen looked up again. “Does not King George need all the soldiers he can muster?”

Keith's mouth tilted up at the corner in that irresistible smile of his, and Ewen smiled back as he always did. “That's the first time you've called him that,” Keith pointed out.

“And the last. Well, he may have many redcoats, but I have only one.”

Keith shot him a startled look. But now the conversation, which had taken a promising turn, was interrupted by a group of men entering through the dining-parlour's open door. And Ewen got hastily to his feet, for first through the door was Charles Edward Stuart - followed by several gentlemen familiar from the sea-voyage. Keith also rose, with more studied politeness.

The Prince, of course, was smiling. “I thought I heard a voice I knew, and was I not right, Sir Francis?” Strickland assented, reluctantly. “Ardroy, I did not expect to find you here! Nor you, Major. Nor,” his voice took on a slight edge, “did I expect to hear you speak of King George!” And as Ewen stiffened, he added, “For if you do not wish others to overhear your words, you should speak lower, Ardroy.”

“To my good friend only, who will not hear of any Electors.” Ewen stood very tall and forbidding.

Charles Edward, who was not, after all, an unintelligent man, had noticed how Ardroy and redcoat, without moving at all, had drawn insensibly together. “Ah oui? Well, I suppose I must forgive you, then.”

“I believe, sir, that I have spoken of 'your Prince' from time to time, while in no way allowing you that position in my own mind.” Thus, the redcoat in question.

“Sir, I feel an Arctic blight! Well, we may fairly call it quits, since 'twas done in the name of friendship.”

“You are too good, sir,” said the Englishman, bowing.

The Prince's attention turned to the fire; he stood in front of it, stripping off his gloves, and handed them and his hat to Strickland. “It's a raw evening. Tell me, if I may enquire, what do you do here?”

Ewen's mental response was, _We were trying to reconcile after a quarrel when you broke in on us_ , but luckily Keith was already speaking. “It is past time for me to rejoin my regiment, and I go to wait for an exchange. Ardroy has kindly agreed to go with me.”

“So we are to be deprived your company? Well, that's our loss.” Unseen by the Prince, Strickland looked faintly appalled. “Nay, 'tis true! But if you are bound for Flanders, as I believe you must be, we may travel together for a while. I'm on my way to Versailles myself.”

Versailles... The golden name seemed to hang in the air of the dimly-lit parlour; spread to encompass the inn and the whole village. Still it grew; vast pleasure-gardens swept out over the mundane farmlands, busy with peacock courtiers; and at its centre reigned King Louis, a godlike presence from which all else took its lustre. It put Britain and its small, rambling palaces to utter shame.

“We should not impose -”

“There's no imposition!” The Prince left the fire and came to their table, seating himself at it with easy assurance, and motioned to them to be seated likewise. “We are shipmates, after all, and since we're going the same way 'tis foolish to go separately.”

Ewen glanced at Keith, expecting him to rebuff the Prince's suggestion with brusque politeness. But instead, and after a moment's pause, he met a firm nod; amazed, he nodded back, and turned to the Prince.

“Your Highness is more than kind. We will go with you.”

“That's settled, then! If the weather's open, you may travel easy in my carriage. I've little mind to use it if I may ride instead. I'm done with hiding myself! But for you two injured gentlemen, it may save you some pains, for we travel fast. We'll leave at dawn; do you finish your dinner, and we will have ours, and so to our beds.”

Thus abjured, Ewen and Keith resumed their cooling meal, and after they finished it, Ewen composed a note to his cousins, to send back with Duncan to St-Malo come the morning. And after that, they repaired to their bed-chambers: both of them too tired to do more than seek their rest, and Ewen, for one, decidedly glad that they had separate small bedrooms... Further talk would have to wait.

*

The English ice had thawed considerably by the next morning. The Prince himself held out his hand to aid Keith to enter the carriage - “Sir, your wound still demands it, I have no doubt!” Ewen was likewise assisted to step inside, and sat down upon its deep cushions with some appreciation.

They glanced at each other. “This is a comfortable carriage,” observed Keith. “The journey will certainly be easier for us both – and I still believe that you should return to St-Malo, now that I have company."

“I'll go with you to the border,” said Ewen, with finality. “Who knows what difficulties you may encounter along the way?” Not for the world would he abandon Keith in the middle of France. He fell silent as the coachman spoke to his horses and the carriage started with a jerk.

*

What seemed like endless miles later, they drew to a halt in front of the stables of the King of France. In any other country, these would have been a palace in themselves. Here they were an unregarded offshoot of the vast edifice, the long cliff of golden stone and flashing glass, the home and seat of power in this land: Versailles.

The palace was not unknown to Ewen, for he had visited it during his two years in the country, but to Keith, of course, it was completely new, except by reputation. His face was unreadable as they passed gate and colonnade and parterre, the huge building looming all the while on their right, its ranks of windows glowing softly in the approaching dusk. There was the sound of laughter, and of music. The air was a rich admixture of scents.

A liveried servant flung open the carriage door. Keith looked at Ewen, raised an enigmatic eyebrow, and descended. Ewen followed, and the carriage rolled away, its wheels crunching on immaculate gravel. They had arrived.

Off to their right, in a knot of his supporters, the Prince called out, “Henri!”and hurried to embrace a younger version of himself. His brother, who had stayed safely in France in the year of Charles Edward's adventure; still, there was obviously great affection between them. And Strickland, meanwhile, was explaining his and Keith's presence to an upper footman, who seemed to Ewen to regard the weary and travel-stained interlopers with polite disdain. Shortly thereafter, they were whisked indoors – through a very minor entrance – and taken up a back staircase to a warren of small rooms set behind a larger apartment allotted to the Prince.

“This is not quite what I imagined of Versailles,” remarked Keith, standing in the middle of their allotted guest-room. It had a couple of beds alongside one wall, a table and chairs, a dressing-table with basin and ewer, and very little else. “Perhaps I will sleep in your Prince's lesser anteroom instead.”

“We have been shown high enough honour; there are many and many who scheme for this much accommodation,” rejoined Ewen. “And,” making a discovery at the wash-stand, “the water is warm!”

*

The next morning, they found their way to the workshop of the court tailor; one of this personage's lesser underlings appeared, and looked down his nose at them, but undertook to provide more seemly clothes. And for the first day, while Keith dozed on his bed with a soldier's ability to sleep whenever time allowed, Ewen was privy to the discussion of the Prince's immediate future in the rooms across the corridor. Pensions and a mansion were hoped for; but it all depended on what kind of mood King Louis was in.

He was, it transpired, in a good enough mood to invite the Prince to a soirée the following night; and with him, his entourage, which had been so providentially swollen by the addition of Ewen and Keith. So Ewen had perforce to hire court clothes, and a sword, since his own broadsword was completely unsuited to the occasion. Keith, on being invited to accompany them, sighed, but said, “Well, yes, of course!” and went with Ewen to see about hiring a wig and a better hat than his own; though he refused utterly to wear anything but his uniform and his Army sword.

So it was with some confidence that Ewen, following his Prince, who was arrayed in plum-coloured satin with silver embroidery, descended the staircase to the reception rooms. And their reception was gratifying; they were most graciously greeted by His Majesty, with Madame de Pompadour a dazzling presence at his side, and the ladies flocked to the Prince and hung upon his words; and not a few clustered around Ewen too. But throughout that glittering evening, with its music and dancing and brilliant talk, Ewen was all too conscious that they were there because of failure. They should have been in London by now, with King James, not King Louis, at the heart of the festivities.

Keith, of course, would not have been there. Ewen was also conscious of the blazing scarlet coat which he knew so well, having spent so many hours stitching the first repairs to it. And for all the magnificence surrounding him, Keith stood out from the brocaded satin, the lace and the plumes. _I am a soldier of King George_ it stated unarguably for its wearer, and stared down the the peacock colours of the assembled courtiers.

Keith was conducting himself admirably; he conversed with a practised ease that was doubtless learned in his stepfather's house; and now he was being led by the Prince to speak with the Queen herself. But when the musicians struck up a minuet, sedate enough to make Ewen think that his leg could carry him through its entirety, he lost sight of his friend in the swirl of courtiers taking the floor. Instead he turned to a young Comtesse, in a gown of various shades of rose-pink bedecked with pearls and ribbons, with whom he was talking, and offered his arm to join them. She accepted this offer with alacrity - “My pink and your green go very well together, sir!” - and they turned to the end of the room where the King was seated, surrounded by princes of the blood; and with the rest of the dancers Ewen bowed and his partner curtsied to the Royal presence.

The minuet began, and wove its way down the room. Ewen, concentrating on the steps of the dance – had it really been a year since he had done this? - noticed a slight shuffling-up of the set, as if a belated pair had joined their number. But it was not until he turned to bow to the gentleman now opposite him that he realised who one of that tardy pair was: for there facing him was Keith Windham, very obviously (to one who knew him) enjoying Ewen's surprise.

Ewen completed a rather clumsy bow, straightened up, and walked towards Keith. They waited for the beat of the music, and retreated; paused while the ladies curtsied to each other in a flurry of silks and plumes at the corner of Ewen's vision. Then forward again; they caught hands and walked round each other; changed hands and circled in the opposite direction. Ewen was conscious of little else except scarlet coat and gold braid, a warm, hard hand in his, and Keith's lurking smile. Then they loosed their grasp, retreated again to the corners of the set, and bowed to each other.

Now the ladies came trippingly forward, in a rustle of skirts and a tapping of little heels, and as they joined hands in a ring, Ewen saw who Keith's partner was: a woman in ivory silks, all embroidered with summer flowers, with high plumes on her head and a face in which patience and nobility of spirit were writ plain to see; but for now, she simply looked pleased.

Keith's partner was, in fact, Marie Leszczyńska, Queen of France.

Ewen mastered the shock which he knew showed on his face, for Her Majesty was advancing towards him; he bowed, took her white hand, and walked with her round the set, feeling a slight dizziness which had nothing to do with the circular motion. Another pause, while they stood with their clasped hands held high and gracefully between them while the other couples promenaded in their turn; at the next phrase of the music, he exchanged a smile with the Queen, and sent her back to her cavalier.

The rest of the dance was a blur to him, but he was smiling inside all the way through it, and did not have to think or mind his steps; he felt as though he were floating, and made not a single mistake. He and the Comtesse finished the dance not far from Keith and the Queen; he had been aware of those two bright figures the whole time. Now he and his partner turned back to the centre of the room, as did Keith, conversing easily with Her Majesty before giving her over to Charles Edward, who had come up to claim her.

Ewen was as happy as he had ever been in a ballroom.

The Comtesse was claimed by a young gallant for the next dance; a while after this, Ewen, happening upon Keith in the press, could see the familiar signs of tiredness in his face.

“Do you wish to go?” he asked quietly, under the cover of the first bars of a gavotte.

“I would be glad to, yes.” Direct as always.

“There are chairs in that room,” and Ewen pointed to a door, “Wait there, and I'll tell Strickland we are retiring.”

“There is no need for you to leave too -”

“There is, for my leg is paining me.”

Keith nodded, and went through the door, through which a row of delicate-looking chairs could be glimpsed, and Ewen went to make excuses for both of them; not that their absence was at all likely to be noticed or remarked on. A few minutes later, he found Keith sitting just inside the door of the anteroom, his arms folded forbiddingly.

“'Tis all done; we have our congé.”

They left the anteroom quietly by the further door, and made their way through a series of chambers of varying degrees of magnificence, with footmen like statues at each set of double doors. Beyond the windows, and the candle-flames reflected in the glass, the night showed dark and mysterious; a distant scatter of lights indicated the presence of the city, but nothing at all could be seen of its buildings. The Palace of Versailles was, as ever, its own enclosed world.

They reached the staircase and essayed its first flight. They had left behind the crowd, and therefore, on the half-landing, Ewen felt they had enough privacy to talk a little.

“I confess I was astonished to see you dancing with Her Majesty!”

Keith smiled. “I note you do not say how unexpected it is to see me dancing at all, still less with a queen.”

“I had not expected it, 'tis true – but of course you would have learned in your step-father's house.”

“I was a competent enough pupil. Dancing and fencing, they're not so unalike. Though I fear I do not aspire to the standards of the French court. I was afraid of a mis-step the whole time – though so gracious a lady would never have remarked upon it.”

They came to the upper landing and paused for a moment, while Keith picked up a taper from a box on a gilt table set there, and lit it at the branched candlestick standing next to it. “In that case,” said Ewen, “I confess that I would like to know why you undertook the ordeal. Did the Queen ask you herself?” But why would the Queen of France, even disregarded as she was, ask an English soldier to be her partner? Ewen was trying to picture this conversation, but failed utterly. “As a courtesy to an enemy, perhaps? She is the soul of courtesy, 'tis true.”

“I found her so, certainly. But she did not ask me; I asked her.” Ewen all but gaped at this information. “It so happened that Madame de Pompadour was advancing upon us. I was in no mood to be enchanted, so I asked Her Majesty to rescue me; which she most gallantly did. Perhaps,” said with an ironical lift of the eyebrow, “it was my inborn charm that made her inclined to do so.”

Ewen gave a sudden laugh, hastily stifled, even though they were now well above the reception-rooms. “I am sure that was it! And may I say that the two of you made a brave picture? Her golden and your red; they went well together. More folk than just I noticed you!”

“Then I am glad I made no mistakes.” Keith's mouth turned up a little at the corner. Yes, he had enjoyed that dance.

They threaded the ill-lit corridors that led to their room, and Ewen unlocking the door, went in. Both sank onto chairs with some relief. Then Keith reached over and lit the three candles in the candelabrum on the table. “That's better. Well, I'm for my bed when I've caught my breath.”

“I too.” In the meagre light of the candles Ewen glanced at Keith, but he was looking no more than tired; he forbore to ask intrusive questions. He went to fill the basin with water, and removing his coat (or rather, his hired coat) began his ablutions.

“What do you think of Versailles, now that you've seen something of it?” he asked, when he emerged from the towel.

And the response came with a inclination of the head. “'Truthfully? 'Tis gilt and glass and mirrors; showy, but brittle.”

This was too much, even though Ewen had seen Keith narrowly observing the court through the early part of the evening and had half-expected something of the sort from his Englishman. His response came without thinking.

“And yet these brittle people have defeated the stalwart English, and not so long ago at that.” Fontenoy. He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Keith had taken a severe wound there; not as terrible as the one Lachlan had dealt him, but bad enough.

Instantly Keith riposted, “'Tis not the first time that we have been given a set-back - yet we've prevailed in the end.”

There was a small pause while they looked at each other, less as courtiers now than as Pict and Roman, measuring each other across the Wall; or border reivers, from their windy hilltops. The air had that sharpness which comes before a thunderstorm.

Then Keith laughed, and held out his hand. “Well, we both deserved that. And I've no wish to start a fight, especially here at the French King's court. I believe I might not win.”

Ewen, who felt at a distinct disadvantage, with a towel round his neck and (he was sure) with his hair sticking to him, was not so sure. “We'll cry quits, then.” He took Keith's hand, feeling it warm in his own, and pulled him to his feet. A pause. He did not let go: he was remembering the other times they had linked hands, whether in growing affection, or comfort, or in the dance just now. Nor did Keith attempt to loose his grasp, but stood regarding him with a half-smile. Then Ewen said, with the sensation with which he had paused on the creag ruadh before diving off it, “Come to bed, Keith.”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “I note that you do not say _Go to bed_. Can it be that you mean, with you?”

“Why yes, with me. Did you not make mention, just now, of your irresistible charm?”

“So I did.” Keith's hand tightened on Ewen's and he stepped closer to him, close as he had been in the dance; closer still. They looked at each other for a moment, then, finally, kissed; and all was well: all was very well. Ewen sighed, and put his arms around his Englishman, whose hands travelled up and about his shirted back, and they kissed again.

When Keith stepped back a little, he said, “I will admit that I was not quite expecting that.”

“I could have sworn you were flirting with me, in the dance!”

“Possibly I was,” admitted Keith, “but I thought neither of us would act on it.”

“We've waited long enough to act on it.”

“A year? Do you say that to everyone after a year?”

“Of course I do.” And that brought an answering smile from Keith, and his hand went up and alighted on Ewen's cheek, and they drew together and kissed again.

Then Keith turned half away and put aside sword-belt and sash, shed his coat and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat in a business-like manner. “Which bed?” he asked. “They're both narrow, and overgrown as you are, I will probably end up on the floor.”

Ewen surveyed them. “We could push them together.”

This was done in a moment, with some perfunctory rearranging of the covers. “Though I warn you, I will not be able to accomplish anything tonight,” continued Keith, now taking his turn at the washstand.

Ewen sat down on the edge of the doubled bed, and pulled off his shoes, and removed the remainder of his clothes. “We have already accomplished a great deal – and I'm tired myself.” He lay down, and shuffled closer to the wall to leave more space, and held out one hand. “Come sleep with me, Keith Windham.”

Keith blew all but one of the candles out, and lay down naked beside him, and drew the covers up.

*

There was some shifting about to begin with, and some murmuring, but they settled down together well enough, and Ewen found himself sliding towards contentment and slumber with a speed that, even in his drowsy state, he found slightly incongruous. But there it was: ever since they had shared the little hut on the shores of Loch Eil he had been familiar with Keith's breathing and the small movements that he made, even though the warmth of his body was utterly new to him. So Ewen slept, though he woke much later to find that his bedfellow was silently demanding more space of him. The candle had burnt low, but he could see the dark shape close beside him, and the rise of a bare shoulder outlined against the dim light. He smiled to himself before dropping back towards sleep: without yielding the required space by so much as an inch, so they lay closer than ever for the rest of the night.

*

They woke in the morning, and found they were no longer quite so tired.

Ewen, turning in the circle of the arm which now lay across him, exchanged a kiss with his bedfellow that woke them both to life in a short space of time. His hands travelled across the soft skin of Keith's shoulder, then his cropped hair, and his strong soldier's body; and then he stopped and hesitated, and traced his fingers down to that long scar that seared around his chest. He pushed the covers down a little way, to see it better.

“No,” mumbled Keith. Ewen made a soft noise of apology. “That's not the sum total of me - any more than this is of you.” Keith's own hand came to rest on Ewen's thigh, where the halberd-thrust that had incapacitated him for months had struck home.

They lay like that for a moment, hands on each other's bodies, breathing quiet in the dim light of the shuttered room. Then Keith's hand moved its own length further up Ewen's body, and Ewen all but yelped. “This might be the sum total of you, at this very moment,” Keith mused.

“Did you but _know_ what I want to do to you...” Ewen was trembling.

“We'll see if you can, shall we?”

*

They dressed afterwards, Ewen getting back into his travelling clothes and Keith turning back into the soldier complete. Ewen watched him arranging his sash, and settling the sword-belt over his head; and after that was done to his satisfaction, Keith caught sight of Ewen's expression.

“Ewen, all our silence will be of little avail if you continue to look at me like that. For everyone will know what we are to each other.”

“It's likely that everyone will know soon enough - this is Versailles, after all - and that no-one will care what an enemy soldier and an exiled ally are doing together.”

“Still, let us not give them too many hints,” said Keith, and immediately refuted this suggestion by stepping close to Ewen and taking him in his arms, who responded with a close embrace, his head bent down to Keith's shoulder; his redcoat, alive! The long days of worry at sea were behind them, and yet, it was still a marvel to him. His arms tightened.

“There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“No. Everything is very right.”

“Not even the Church's prohibition? You have a more profound faith than I.”

Ewen hesitated. “No, not that. _Thou shalt not kill_ , but I've fought in battles; and no-one is harmed by this. But it is all so – impossible...”

“All the more reason to enjoy it now, while we can.” Their embrace tightened. “It was very enjoyable,” said Keith, low-voiced, in Ewen's ear, and this made him smile. For enjoyable it certainly had been, there in the bed just a few minutes since.

*

The petit déjeuner was taken at ten o'clock in the prince's apartment; with Ewen trying not to look as sated as he already felt. The room was of nicely-graded magnificence, and the prince was in sunny mood. The rest of his entourage (for Ewen had to admit that he and Keith had partly been recruited to swell their numbers) was present, including Henri; except for Strickland, who was absent for the first half-hour. He came in at half-past with an expression part-startled, part-sour, with a sealed paper in his hand.

“Ah, Major Windham,” he said. “Good. I need not go in search of you.” And he handed the paper to Keith, who took it with a word of thanks and an expression of surprise and broke the seal.

The talk flowed on around him, politely; the Prince was considering how he should set up the mansion close by that had been granted to him, and how many horses he could keep on the pension that went with it. Ewen, meanwhile, was wondering how long his own resources would last, when Keith put down the scented paper with a half-smothered sound of astonishment. Ewen turned towards him with a concern which was instantly dissipated by the expression on Keith's face; amazement, yes, but great satisfaction as well.

To the enquiring silence at the table, he said, “It is an order from the Queen's own hand. I am to be released to rejoin my regiment, with no need to wait for an exchange. I am free to go, whenever I wish.”

He was smiling, and the rest of the company was quick with smiles and congratulations, the more so as the Prince came round the table to shake his hand. “You have made a friend of my mother's countrywoman the Queen! It is generous of her, but only to be expected of so great a lady. Tell me, what is there between you and her? You were dancing with her last night...”

“Little enough, sir, save that I preferred her company to that of Madame de Pompadour.”

“Ah, she'd like that! Well, Ardroy, it seems we are to lose our travelling companion at last.”

Ewen, meanwhile, had been remembering the sight of the son and daughter of Poland, standing with their heads bent close together after that minuet, and further remembered a wave of the Prince's hand towards himself, and wondered whether the Prince was in part responsible for this expediting of Keith's freedom. Was the story of an unlikely friendship even now beginning to make its way around the Palace – or was it simply a gracious gesture from a gracious lady? He would probably never know. And for now, he was trying to set his own feelings in order; in short, to bring to the fore gladness on Keith's behalf that he was finally going home, and to stifle the little inner voice that cried, _To part so soon!_ He glanced at Keith and met a look that said the same. The tide of war that had brought them together was sweeping them apart once again.

But that could not be helped. It was, as he had said an hour before, all so improbable. He put a hand on Keith's arm and said, “I am so glad,” and was rewarded by a half-smile.

The Prince was speaking again. “There's no need for you to depart this instant, my dear sir,” and Keith all but blinked at being thus addressed. “Stay but a night or two more, and I will have horses in plenty which will no doubt take you to your destination faster than any hired nags -” _indeed?_ thought Ewen; _or will they be Her Majesty's horses?_ “And Ardroy with you to bring them back, if he wishes it, and I am sure he will wish it. Do not deprive us of our redcoat before you must! And perhaps you may dance one more time with the Queen.”

Ewen could have kissed his Prince there and then. Fortunately he managed to suppress this impulse, but joined his thanks to Keith's, and in the discussion of routes and overnight stops he navigated through his troubled emotions to a seeming of his usual equanimity.

*

And they both preserved that equanimity to the end, though the nights in between were filled with the knowledge that soon this meeting would be over. News of the latest campaigns in Flanders reached them on the road; Keith said once, “I should be there,” and then nothing more on the subject.

And another time, they were sheltering under a tree which had not yet shed all its leaves from a sudden downpour. A little way ahead of them, a river looped its slow way across the flat fields, and seeing fleets of waterfowl upon its pools, something long forgotten came to Ewen's mind. “You remember my foster-father's prophecy.”

“Yes. The fifth meeting.” The hand under his – for they were not within view of anyone else - turned upwards, and gripped strongly.

“I never told you about the boat that took us off Morar.”

“What of it?”

“Her name. She's called the _Curr_. Or as you would say, the Heron.”

“Ah.” A long exhalation. “What does that mean, do you think?”

“I will take the meaning that the heron has done its work in bringing us together.”

“And that we are now free of the prophecy?”

“I hope so.”

A pause. “So do I.” Their joined hands clasped each other more strongly; and then the rain slackened, and they re-mounted and rode down to the grey stone bridge before them.

The hope that the prophecy was fulfilled and done with sustained him through the parting at the border, as they walked out beyond the last village of France, its timbered buildings fading in the rain behind them. The officer commanding in the village had inspected Keith's letter, returned it to him with a bow and expressions of congratulation, then waved the two of them forward to the point on the road where the last outlying picket kept its watch. And here Ewen stopped, for he could go no further.

The rain fell in a steady drizzle; the mud of Flanders gleamed under their feet. Ewen was speechless; Keith likewise in little better case. But he said, “Carry my good wishes to Dr. Cameron and Lochiel, I beg. And you, Ewen... always.”

Ewen found his voice. “Yes. Always.” A last handclasp, which held all that they could not say, and then Keith turned and was gone down the road to Flanders.

*

It was five months later. Keith was back with his own battalion of the Royals in Kent, after a brief leave granted him to enable him to visit Stowe House, where the family was ensconced for the winter, and where they heard his story - his brother with excitement, his step-father with concern, and his mother with languid interest. He had begun to see his interlude on board _L'Herault_ and in France as a brightly-coloured but distant cameo, half the warmth and colour in his life compressed into those few fleeting weeks. Here at Dover, once more wearing Charles Edward's cloak, he was kicking his heels, walking the grey bastions of the castle as he had patrolled the walls of many castles in the past; as he had done at Edinburgh, eighteen months before. They had been under siege then, and were so now after the latest reverse in Flanders, though this time the fortress was an entire island; and since the weather was open, from this spot he could see the walls of France, gleaming white between grey sea and grey sky.

But now came an orderly to summon him to the officer commanding, and there he received orders to go up to London. There was nothing in these orders to satisfy any curiosity he might have had, but inactivity was palling on him, and he had his horse saddled without delay.

Up onto the Downs and thence to the Weald, where ploughing was under way, and the orchards were showing their first pink blossoms. He lay overnight at one of the camps that dotted this corner of England so liberally. In the morning, more chalk hills faced him in a long escarpment which he surmounted before descending their northern slopes to the valley of the Thames and into the buzzing hive of London. There he found his way to an anonymous little office in Whitehall, and there, after waiting a good hour beyond the time appointed, on a comfortless bench, he was called in by a nondescript secretary, a grey man of an appearance that would be difficult to recall within hours of meeting him, but a of kind that Keith nevertheless found instantly recognisable. He felt like a dog with its hackles rising; what would he, a plain soldier, have to do with intelligencers? 

But the grey man, ushering him into the office, murmured, “Sir William, here is Major Windham,” and departed. And Sir William was another type entirely; rubicund, stout, and looking very like a prosperous farmer. He was seated against the light of a large window, and was reading a sheet of paper covered in meticulous copperplate handwriting. Keith recognised this tactic for what it was, and stood, irritated but resigned, until Sir William looked up.

“Ah, Major Windham! Sit down; I should not have kept you standing.” _No indeed_ , thought Keith, but took the chair indicated. “I was absorbed in the story of your adventures; that's quite a tale, sir, quite a tale!”

“It certainly seemed so at the time, Sir William.”

“Should you wish to publish your memoirs, they would make a stir!” The pleasantries continued in this vein for an exchange or two more, then Sir William began to elicit more information from Keith than had appeared in his report. “The Pretender's son, did he seem cast down by his failure? Will he try to get French support for another attempt, do you think? What was the mood at Versailles?” And so on; and Keith responded as best he could, for a soldier returning from a spell in enemy territory could do so without loss of honour. But he had very little idea of the import of this conversation.

Until, that is, Sir William turned to another sheet. “Hm. Now. You've bedded your Cameron, it says here; will that continue?”

There was a sudden frost in the room; the silence was broken only by the almost imperceptible sound of Keith's hand falling onto his sword-hilt. Sir William regarded him with an impatient eye. “Come, Major, I was told you were a firebrand, but I merely asked a question. Is it still going on?” His broad fingers tapped on the report - and who the devil had written it?

“I have no way of telling, sir.” Keith's voice was Arctic. “Nor do I see its relevance to this discussion.”

“Oh, it has every relevance. You have shown yourself immune to the charms of the Marquise de Pompadour – and indeed, you've made a friend of the Queen! But I wish to know if you'll continue that way, or if you'll make a fool of yourself over the Pompadour in future.”

Keith was mentally gasping, but arranged his thoughts sufficiently to reply, “I danced with the Queen twice, sir. That is hardly a friendship. I have not spoken with the Marquise beyond an introduction, nor do I have any wish to. As for Ardroy, he is in France and I am here. Whatever we may have been to each other, and I do not confirm your information, there will be little opportunity for further meetings – and may I add that the nature of any such meetings is no concern of yours?”

“Hoity-toity! It is very much my concern. He is at Versailles still, aide-de-camp to the Pretender's son once more – and we have need of an envoy, someone to act as liaison between the French court and our own. Someone who will not fall victim to the charms of the Pompadour. If you'd rather bed the Cameron than her, you may very well be the man. We'd rather it were not a Jacobite, of course – but you've a toehold at Versailles and we need all the advantage we can find.”

“If your envoy is merely to act as messenger, sir, I would accept the position without hesitation. But I have been asked, not so long ago, to spy upon people who have shown me nothing but courtesy. That is how I acquired my reputation as a firebrand. If you can assure me that I would not be required to do that – particularly as regards Ardroy, Dr. Cameron, and Lochiel, I will happily undertake the mission. Though I may add that the Pretender's son has also treated me most correctly.”

“He's a charming fellow, I've heard.” Sir William was struck by a thought. “You've no interest in that direction, I take it?”

Now beyond surprise, Keith regarded him with a fascinated eye. “None whatsoever.” 

“'Tis the Cameron or no-one, then? Ha, very commendable, and no doubt wise too, given what I've heard of Versailles! As for the Pretender's son, to be honest he's of little concern now; he's shot his bolt. France is the real enemy. And France is almost at a standstill, despite our latest reversal, and we believe Louis may be willing to consider a graceful exit from the war. Be our messenger for the opening of negotiations. Tell us what anyone may see at the court while you're at it. I make no mention of spying -”

“You have others who can do that, do you not?” Keith gestured at the report of his 'bedding' of Ewen, his ire rising once again.

“Of course we have. But they cannot report on the court at large; they have not the entry. You have that entry.”

“And yet the charge is not much to my liking.”

Sir William' voice rose, and his broad hand thumped down onto the table. “But it is your duty, and I have told you that your Cameron friends are of no interest to us: except that your liaison with Ardroy makes you immune to the wiles of the Pompadour. Will you not listen to me, man?”

“I hear you. I do not necessarily agree with you. And you have a most lenient attitude to what you are pleased to call my liaison.”

“That's the spirit! You are beginning to think with your brain now, not with your – heart. And we all made trial of ourselves at school, let's face it, if not since.”

At school. Yes. There had been – He dragged his mind back to the present, for Sir William was still speaking. “But remember. Since our last reversal, and despite France's waning interest, we should still consider the Jacobites a possible threat.”

Keith all but sighed. “I do not forget that, sir. Nor do I forget that I am a soldier, first, foremost and always.”

The two men exchanged level looks. The battle-lines had been set out; there was perfect comprehension in each gaze. For the space of a few seconds they were both stock-still and silent, while an early fly buzzed against a window-pane. Then Sir William nodded.

“An observant soldier will fulfil our requirements very well. Now, as to your travel arrangements -” and he produced a packet from the heap of papers on his desk, while Keith tried to order his thoughts, which were running riot in several directions at once: he had been noticed again; was going back to France as his government's messenger; and Ewen – to see Ewen again! 

He was so abstracted that it came as a shock when, just a few seconds later, as he took the thick packet, heavy with seals, Sir William concluded by saying, “and a mere Major will never do as a courier in such a matter; so, Lieutenant-Colonel Windham, may I congratulate you?”

An exclamation compounded of surprise, delight and disbelief escaped Keith. He stared speechless at Sir William, whose expression had an air of distinct satisfaction, for several seconds.

“Well, man, in my opinion 'tis more than deserved! You will be supernumerary to the Royals, of course -”

He made a faint sound of protest. “But I will not have to exchange elsewhere?”

“No, we won't ask that of you, never fear.”

Keith sighed just a little in relief. The regiment was where he belonged.

“But for the moment, you're our courier to the French court, and maybe elsewhere too. But that's in the future. For now, you sail tomorrow; gather your wits, Colonel Windham, and be on your way!”

Keith saluted, and left the office, and shortly thereafter found himself back on the dank London street: which seemed to him, however temporarily, to be paved with gold.

*

Ewen, in his role as aide-de-camp, found himself much occupied with the minutiae of settling the Prince into the house granted him in St-Antoine. His duties were not onerous, but nevertheless took up a fair amount of his time, shuttling him back and forth between Paris and Versailles, seeing to it that the Prince had all as he liked it.

This trivial work was a not unwelcome distraction from all that had been put to one side during his escape and subsequent adventurings in France: the bloody defeat of the cause, the occupation of his homeland, exile, and worry for his aunt, now managing his estate under the hostile eye of the redcoats of the Great Glen. And there was one particular redcoat, of course, to whom his thoughts constantly returned. Where was he now? Had he been at the bloodbath of Rocoux at the end of Autumn? Surely not... One battalion of the Royals had been in Kent, the other in Scotland; but there could be no word from Keith since he had gone down that road in the dusk at the border, nor was there any means of obtaining news. 

Ewen was more glad than he could well articulate of the Prince's constant and trivial demands, although he was conscious of a certain impatience now and then. But for now, he had a small income as well as occupation, and a place in his Prince's household; and his cousins had joined him before long. Lochiel, when fully recovered of his wound, had been given command of King James' Cameron regiment, and Archie had taken on the rôle of courier, and was absent for weeks at a time; or, when at Versailles, was often closeted with King Louis' ministers.

Today, Ewen himself was at the palace, kicking his heels in an antechamber, having delivered a message to the Queen. Now he was waiting among a ruck of minor nobility to see one of the valets de chambre. But, glancing idly out of the doors of the waiting-room, he caught a brief glimpse of a flash of scarlet.

His heart thumped. He was off out of the crowd of courtiers, standing bored and aimless or exchanging news with the determination of people whose livelihoods depended on it. Their satin and jewels, and their marble and gilt surroundings, went past him in a blur. He was out through the double doors and onto a monumental staircase in an instant. 

There he was, on the turn of the stairs above - “Windham!” Ewen was taking the stairs two at a time.

They met on the half-landing and paused there, hands half reaching out, before pausing to scan each other's face. Ewen saw a trace of anxiety in Keith's eyes, which he knew was mirrored in his own. Then the anxiety was gone, driven out by the strength of their embrace. There was a solid sword-hilt digging into Ewen's elbow, and Keith was laughing softly against his neck.

That lasted only a moment, and they released each other and stepped back. For above them was a brief commotion, and around them a stirring of silks and plumes, and a flash of diamonds at the edge of vision. Ewen turned to face the source of the disturbance, and Keith close at his side did the same. There above them was the King of France, dressed for the promenade, pausing in surprise at the top of the staircase with a flock of dukes about him. Ewen bowed, as did the courtiers above and below him, and Keith too, with predictable and absolute correctitude.

The King descended the stairs to the half-landing, and paused for the briefest instant. He glanced at the pair before him, and Ewen saw, beside the habitual worry and indecision, a trace of envy as he looked at the two enemies, standing so close together and with, Ewen was sure, the joy of their meeting still hanging in the air around them. 

Louis addressed Keith: “I have seen you before, sir, have I not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was present at a soirée last September, a most glittering occasion.” Spoken with a Flemish accent, which made Ewen smile inwardly; the importance that had assumed last year!

“Ah yes! When we were pleased to welcome Prince Charles once more among us.” The unspoken words, “And you danced with my Queen,” echoed up and down the marble stair. “We are glad to see you once more among us, though we do not know the reason for the pleasure of your company.”

“As my government's courier, sire.”

“To tender its submission, perhaps,” came a soft murmur from behind the King. It was difficult to tell who had spoken, for several of the ladies held their fans before their faces; but the Marquise de Pompadour's eyes were smiling.

“No, Madame, nor ever will," in which words certainty and courtesy had equal measure. "Sire, I would be glad to speak with you concerning my mission.”

“Well, well. Perhaps we may spare a moment or two tomorrow, or the next day. For now, we go to promenade in the Park; if you wish, you may accompany the court there.” And the King nodded pleasantly, and Keith bowed, and the royal party continued its way down the stairs.

“That was less trouble than I anticipated,” murmured Keith in an undertone to Ewen.

“You took him by surprise, perhaps! You took me by surprise – oh, Keith, it's good to see you.” Ewen briefly took his hand between both of his own, and let it go, though no-one was looking at them now. “Come with me: you've been given permission to walk in the gardens, and I was waiting for one of the valets, but he will be gone with the rest of them. Tell me of your news” – he held him at arm's length, and looked over his uniform - “Colonel Windham!”

*

 

Once in the gardens, by means of lagging a little behind the rest of the court, and choosing their moment to wander off one of the grandes allées, they contrived to find themselves alone. They fetched up in a little hedged enclosure, where they sat upon a stone bench and gazed at a statue of a pretty nymph with a sea-shell, from which issued a fine spray of water. 

The March sun was warm on their backs, and the fountain whispered its music. Nothing else could be seen except the tall green hedges, and the gravelled path, and a sky of purest blue arching over them; and the bold colour of Keith's coat outshining all. Not even the nearby palace could overlook them here. Ewen listened carefully. There were no approaching footsteps, no-one close by, no-one except the nymph to know if... But Keith forestalled him by putting a hand on his shoulder and kissing him, to which Ewen responded with energy.

Many a pair of lovers, no doubt, had done this same thing in this secluded spot; few had so many obstacles in their path to togetherness... They sat back, and Ewen took in the sight of Keith smiling sidelong at him, and his heart turned over with joy.

“It is indeed odd,” remarked Keith a while later, “that your foster-father did not foresee this.” He lifted their joined hands from where they lay on the bench between them. “It is not the least unlikely thing of all that has happened to us.”

“'Great service, bitter grief,” and Ewen tightened his hand on Keith's, as he repeated the words of the prophecy. “'As the threads are twisted at the first meeting, so they will always shape themselves' - tell me, when did you first begin to think of me this way?”

“Ewen, you surely know better than to ask me that – but 'I realised astonishingly late' will do well enough for now.” Keith tilted his head back to receive the sun's warmth, and closed his eyes. “It was impossible, after all, and so did not occur to me.”

“So it was for me. And maybe that's why Angus did not see it. We did not know ourselves – we were as much in the dark as he, though with less excuse. Or maybe he simply could not see beyond the _Curr_ , which was surely the ending of the prophecy. We will never know, though, for I certainly cannot ask him.”

Keith opened his eyes, and looked round at Ewen. There was that smile again.

“Maybe he had some inkling. You told me he was puzzled, after all. Maybe he knew enough to... drop a hint... though he did not speak clearly. For if he could 'see' anything at all, it must surely have been apparent to him,” said the Englishman, “that I always liked you.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> heloise1415 has flattered this writer immensely by writing a wake-up scene for S&S&M, to fill a gap which she identified while the fic was in beta. This gap was filled by me (with a certain amount of struggle) - but her scene is delightful and is very well worth reading! It's here: http://heloise1415.livejournal.com/32892.html


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